


Beyond Time and Possibility.

by bittersweet_skylines



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bad Poetry, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by The Starless Sea, M/M, Modern Era, Slow Burn, Time Travel AU, as slow as 10k can be anyways, canon enjorlas, kind of, modern grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25441987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersweet_skylines/pseuds/bittersweet_skylines
Summary: The year is 2019. Grantaire discovers half a door behind a drier in his apartment's basement.The year is 1832. Enjorlas discovers a beautiful carved door in the basement of the Musain.The year does not exist. A room beyond time and reality that allows two strangers to meet centuries apart.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78





	Beyond Time and Possibility.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be nice- this is the first thing I've written in over a year and the first time I've ever attempted to write anything for Les Mis.   
> Also! This was inspired by The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern. Specifically the story "The Ballad of Simon and Eleanor" within the story.

The year was 2019. 

Grantaire stumbled upon the door one morning as he was doing laundry in the basement of his apartment building. It was a half door, hidden behind one of the older driers. He discovered it by mistake, after knocking his water bottle behind that same old drier. It was just barely six am, but he moved it by himself anyways. It was his water bottle, after all. 

The door was missing its doorknob- though it looked like there hadn’t been one ever at all. The laundry room had recently been repainted with a fresh coat of bright white paint. However, the frame of the door looked old, the wood around the floorboard chipping away, possibly eaten by termites. The door itself was once painted white, but it was chipping and cracked in most places, revealing a natural wood underneath. 

He assumed it was bolted shut, but he tried to pry it open anyways. Nothing. He decided to just leave it alone. What could possibly be behind the door anyways?

So he put the drier back in place, collected his laundry and his supplies, and went back up to his apartment. 

\---

The year was 1832. 

Enjolras discovered the door one evening as he was leaving the Musain.

Enjolras just finished the meeting with  _ Les Amis de l’ABC. _ Everyone was clearing out of the Musain, but he stayed back just a while longer. He lingered in the back, watching as Combeferre and Courfeyrac packed up their belongings and spoke quietly to themselves. There was a nudge and a smile, and then the two gave each other a small nod and parted ways, Combeferre leaving the cafe while Courfeyrac hung back. 

There had been a crowd forming outside the cafe. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he wasn’t quite interested in finding out. 

He asked the owner if there was another exit. He directed Enjolras downstairs. 

It was a full door, standing proudly between kegs and crates. The door was paintedA deep brown, almost blending into the wall around it. There were elaborate carvings down the front of it, swirling in abstract shapes he didn’t quite understand. Despite this, it stood out, even with the crates surrounding it. 

He assumed it was the door at first. It was far too beautiful to be an exit, but at first glance it was the only door he could see. 

However, when he tried the doorknob, it would not open. It turned entirely and clicked like a door normally would, but it wouldn’t crack. He pushed and pulled, but nothing came of it. 

Below at the crack of the door, he saw a shadow move and then the light underneath disappear altogether, as if something had been pressed up against the door. He hesitated, but the actual exit caught the corner of his eye and he promptly left the Musain. The other door left his mind completely. 

\---

The year was 2019. 

It had been a week since Grantaire mistakenly discovered the hidden door. It had yet to actually leave the back of his mind. Rationally, he knew it likely just led to a brick wall. There was no way there was anything beyond the door- as the other side of the wall was just the alley. This wasn’t a Coraline situation, as much as he wanted it to be. 

Though, he was a little old to be wanting to live out a children’s tale. At twenty, Grantaire would’ve thought that he would be quicker to dismiss all the ideas in his head. Still, he wanted to see. Just to make sure. 

So he borrowed his neighbour’s toolbox with the assurance that he just needed to put together a shelf and attach it to his wall. It took some convincing, but now he had a tool box filled with tools he didn’t know how to use until the end of the weekend. 

It was three am, Saturday morning. Grantaire had already silently moved the drier once again, hoping that he wasn’t fucking up the entire system during the process. Nothing  _ seemed  _ to come undone, but then again he had no idea how to tell if a drier was connected properly in the first place. 

He was holding screwdrivers up to the nails visible in the door, trying to figure out which one would fit the screws in the wall. Once he found it, he pushed the rest aside and began to take them out, setting them into the toolbox.

He tried to pry the door open once he was sure they were all out, but still, it wouldn’t budge. He checked around, seeing if there was anything obstructing the door from opening, but he couldn’t see anything. Judging by the hinges, it had to swing out- it wasn’t like something could be blocking the door from the other side. 

Along the crack of the door, he could see something moving. He wasn’t sure if it was a person, a thing or just his imagination. However, a few moments later it moved again. Grantaire pressed his ear against the door to listen, trying to catch  _ anything _ , but it was dead silent. 

Just to make sure, he grabbed a stack of sticky notes and a pen and quickly scrawled a message on the top one, before he slipped it under the door. 

He waited five, ten, then twenty minutes and there was no response. He gave up. There was no point in lingering down here at four am when there was nothing behind the door. 

So with a heavy heart, he put the drier back, only this time leaving just two inches of the door visible. Just in case. 

He cleaned up his things, making sure he had everything before he returned to his apartment. 

\---

The year was 1832. 

It had been a month since Enjolras had found the door and he had promptly forgotten about it. 

_Les Amis De L’ABC_ continued to have their meetings in the Musain. Occasionally, Enjolras would still exit through the basement but he never glanced twice at the door. 

Not until fate decided to step in. 

The meeting was finished now, though everyone was staying behind once again for one reason or another. Enjolras engaged in small conversation with a handful of people as they passed, though every time he attempted to leave he was dragged into a new conversation.

He wasn’t particularly interested in discussing anything more. He was tired, and had a headache steadily forming. So with a quick glance around, he slipped past everyone and to the basement. 

This time, the door caught his eye once again.    


Well, not the door in particular but the odd, bright yellow piece of paper on the ground. 

He picked it up, only to drop it suddenly at the stickiness on the back of it. He wiped his hand on his pants before he picked it up again. It was only sticky at a small strip on the top of the paper, which only baffled him more. He hesitated before he turned it over and read the writing on the opposite side. 

It was written in a deep blue ink, which looked more black against the oddly colored paper. The writing was thin- too thin to be written with a fountain pen. It was neat though- as if it was done by an expert calligrapher. It took him a few reads before he truly processed what it said. 

_ Is there someone on the other side of this door? Do you need help? Where does it lead? _

Enjolras flipped the paper over again and touched the sticky strip again, simultaneously wanting to know  _ what  _ it was and not wanting to know how the stranger had gotten it like that. 

He debated if it was worth it to respond. The door likely led to a different part of the alley way. Whoever had left the odd paper was probably long gone now. 

He kept the sticky paper with him, tucking it safely in a pocket before he left the cellar. He wasn’t sure what to reply with yet, or if he wanted to reply at all. 

The next morning he snuck in through the hidden exit and slipped his response underneath the door, hoping that whoever wrote the original message saw it before anyone else did. 

\---

The year was 1832. 

Weeks passed and Enjolras never found another response. If there had been one, someone must have picked it up before he managed to get to it. He was… disappointed, he guessed. He wasn’t surprised, but he had been hoping for something. An answer to why the paper was sticky and possibly the most yellow he’d ever seen.

It occurred to him one evening as he was passing the door that he never tried to open the door after that first time. He wanted to see what was beyond it horribly. The mystery behind it- the  _ person  _ behind it fascinated him. 

It was worth a shot, he supposed. It had been weeks now and anything could’ve happened. Whoever was beyond the door could have unlocked it for him now that they knew there was someone on the other side.  _ If  _ they knew. 

There couldn’t logically be anything beyond the door besides the alley way. When he had looked in the same alley weeks ago, there was no other side to the door, but occasionally through the door there was light and movement, so there had to be something. Anything. 

It was wishful thinking, he knew, but he just wanted to  _ know _ . 

So, Enjolras approached the door. He took a deep breath and ran his hand down the carvings in the door. The door was cold. Enjolras found that cruel- that something that felt so delicate and welcoming was so void of warmth. 

His heart was racing faster and faster. He couldn’t understand why- the door was likely locked and if not, it would lead him to more supplies or the alley. Perhaps the door just looked vastly different on the other side. The light from the crack underneath was too artificial though. It was an odd light, one that Enjolras was sure he’d never seen before. 

After what felt like an eternity just standing at the door, Enjolras took one deep breath and carefully attempted to turn the doorknob. 

The door knob turned fully and after a careful shove, the door opened. 

\---

The year was 2019. 

Grantaire never got back a note. 

He’d be a liar if he said that he didn’t check the next day and the day after, but after the third day of nothing, he stopped looking. In fact, Grantaire thought it was best that he just stopped thinking about it altogether. 

It was just an old door, probably bricked up from the other side. Whatever he saw moving could have just been a trick of the light. Come to think of it, Grantaire was probably hungover or coming off of a high when he thought he saw something. It was just his hazy mind trying to encourage him to continue seeking for an adventure that wasn’t there. 

Besides, he had a massive portfolio due at the end of the month and he didn’t have time to try and live out fairytales. 

He did his laundry on Tuesdays at two am, so he could sit in the laundry room while he waited for the cycles to end and not get in other people’s way. Usually he’d bring his sketchbook and his pencil case and would draw things that definitely was not what he imagined to be beyond the door. 

\---

The year did not exist. 

Enjolras was alone in a dark, cold and abandoned looking room. The walls were lined with various doors, all of them solid and opaque, but all in various colours, sizes and conditions. His door matched the other side perfectly. It shut silently behind him. 

He gazed around the room, his eyes struggling to make out the specific details. The walls were a deep gray and the floors a dark brown wood, worn down and discolored in various places. 

“Light would be helpful,” he muttered to himself and suddenly on the wall across from him, three of the doors disappeared and a grand, bricked fireplace melted from the wall. The fire in the hearth lit itself and cast a warm glow into the room. 

He swallowed, blinking, trying to get his vision to return to the plain wall he had so clearly seen before. 

Once the shock subsided, Enjolras walked towards the fire and put his hands out towards the flame, warming his fingertips. He swallowed before he sat down on the floor, shoulders hunching over himself. He looked around the room- completely empty outside of the fireplace and the doors.

He opened his mouth, but no words came to him. He tried again moments later, but the same results followed. 

He turned to the fireplace once more and chewed on his lower lip. He didn’t know what to think of the room. Of all things that he could have imagined beyond the door, this was not it. 

It made no sense. The sheer amount of doors, tucked side by side barely an inch apart. It wasn’t possible. Walls weren’t that thin and even if they were, each door would lead to a hallway. 

He stood again and returned to his door, brushing the doorknob before he walked over to the next door. The door knob was expensive looking compared to his own. It seems to be crystal, carved into a circle and fastened onto the door with a gold plate. There were no carvings on the door, but it was a much lighter brown than his own. 

It felt wrong to put his hand on the doorknob. Enjolras would never be put in a position that allowed him to touch something so… lavish in any other situation. There was no one to stop him though, so he took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. 

The door swung out, but it opened to nothing. Not even a wall. It was just a boundless dark void, filling the room with cold winter winds. 

Hastily, he shut the door. 

His curiosity began to grow and Enjolras walked across the room to a complete new set of doors. One was painted black, made of a solid metal. There was no doorknob of any kind, not even a place to push it. 

Still, Enjolras placed his hand along the edge opposite of the hinge and pushed, adding his second hand as nothing budged and then eventually putting his whole side against it. The door began to open, but as he passed through the doorframe his entire body began to burn. He let out a cry of pain before stumbling back. 

The door was open just enough for him to make out a desk with shelves above it, each one packed with boxes and cylindrical containers with various labels that he couldn’t make out from where he was standing. Slowly, the door shut on its own. 

His body still aching, Enjolras walked back to the corner by the fireplace and sat down. He winced at every ripple of pain. 

“Please stop being so hot,” he said, sending it out to the room. Suddenly, the fire in the fireplace turned blue and the warmth suspended entirely, leaving Enjolras feeling, if possible, nothing. 

The blisters no longer burned, but across his hands there was still a handful of small bubbles. The pain had suspended his interest in finding out what behind any of the other doors. If it was anything like those two, he didn’t want to know. 

Still, the room seemed to listen to his requests without any harm to him. That kept him from leaving then and there

He didn’t know what he wanted to request. He had nothing to give back. He was unsure if the room, or whoever was providing things from beyond the room even wanted anything in return. 

“Is there someone here?” he asked. There was a beat, and then another, and then nothing. He waited just a few moments more before he spoke up again. 

“Is it possible to get something to eat?” he asked. Nothing again.  _ Too vague?  _ He wondered. 

“I would like an apple, please,” he tried. This time, beside the fireplace, a small opening in the wall appeared and from within it, a red apple laid on a tray. He got up and took it. He sat down again and hesitantly took a bite. It tasted real. It had to be real. 

He didn’t want to stay any longer. The room was overwhelming, Enjolras was still trying to process what was happening in there. The other person who left the note must have been in the room when they did it, so if he left a note in the room the person would receive it, right?

“Paper, pencil, please?” Enjolras asked. The request felt stupid coming out of his mouth. 

He grabbed the paper and the sharpened, oddly smooth pencil before he wrote a note to the mystery person and left it on the shelf of the fireplace. 

“Please make sure the other person gets this,” he asked the room, but there was no answer. He assumed it would follow that request like the rest of them had. He had to trust the room, that shouldn’t logically exist.

He looked around the room once more, before he opened his door and fell back into his own world. 

As he crossed the doorframe, the apple that was in his hand dissolved into the air. 

\---

The year was 2019. 

Grantaire woke up late one Saturday afternoon. He rolled over on his side and reached for his phone, but instead grabbed a small, neatly folded piece of paper. Confused, he sat up and flipped it open. He rubbed his eyes and focused in on the unfamiliar, neat cursive. 

_ Dear whoever left me the yellow, sticky paper note,  _

_ I found the room. I assume you have to. It’s curious, isn’t it? I could only stay for a few minutes before feeling so overwhelmed. Which door is yours? Assuming we come from different doors, of course. . I will be back to visit this Sunday, provided you let me in. I’d like to meet you.  _

Grantaire read the letter once, then twice, then a third time. He pulled on a shirt from his floor, and left his bedroom. 

His roommate, Eponine, was sitting on the couch, curled up with a bowl of cereal. She glanced at him before instinctively moving over so that Grantaire could sit next to her. Instead, he stayed standing. 

“Why’d you write this?” he asked. She raised an eyebrow.

“Write what? Hey- get outta the way, you’re blocking the tv,” she said, waving her hand. Grantaire stood still. 

“How’d you even  _ know  _ about the door? I didn’t say anything to you,” he said, waving the letter. “I haven’t told anyone so don’t try and put it on-”

“R. I didn’t write it,” she repeated. “Now  _ move _ before I make you.” 

Grantaire opened his mouth to object before he sighed and moved to sit next to her. He handed her the note and waited until she skimmed it quickly. 

“What the fuck is this?” she asked, handing it back. Grantaire shrugged. 

“Just showed up on my nightstand. It’s… a long story,” he said shortly. 

“Well I don’t have time for it then,” she said with a small shrug. “I gotta go check on my idiot parents.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re rushing to see them,” Grantaire pointed out as he sunk into the corner of the couch. Eponine shrugged. 

“When am I ever?” she muttered, finally standing up. As she walked towards the front door, Grantaire brought his feet up on the couch, curling up as he sloppily folded up the note.

“You really didn’t write this?” Grantaire asked. Eponine rolled her eyes as she slung her leather jacket over her shoulders. 

“You said it yourself- I don’t even know what it’s about,” she insisted. “If I’m not home by five, call me, yeah? Make sure I didn’t strangle them.” 

“Why are you even going?” Grantaire asked. “It’s been  _ months _ .” 

“Exactly. It’s been months and not a single text. Last time I saw them was…” 

“Yeah I know,” Grantaire said weakly. “I’ll call you at five,” he reassured. She gave a half smile before she nodded and ducked out of the door quickly, leaving Grantaire in the apartment alone. 

He just sat there for a while, staring at the ceiling and playing with the paper until it began going soft and damp. It was only when he accidently ripped the corner of it that he finally sat up and unfolded the letter once more. 

He read it over again, trying to wrap his mind around who he had told about the stupid, unopenable door in the basement. No one. He was absolutely positive that he hadn’t told anyone about the door or the note he had put under there last week. 

It wasn’t like whoever was on the other side of the door could’ve gotten the note to his room. They were trapped behind the drier and even then, he never said which apartment was his. 

Magic, he thought jokingly, which made him laugh out loud. 

Then for a second time,  _ magic _ , he thought. Perhaps there was more in the world outside of fairy tales written in books and films.

Sunday, the letter said. The writer would be back on Sunday. Grantaire was going to meet them. 

\---

The year did not exist. 

Grantaire was shocked when the door had swung open with so much ease, allowing him to crawl through it. What caught him off guard, was when he had just fallen from the door to the ground. He blinked, staring up at the ceiling that seemed endless, like a deep sky with distant stars twinkling above. The pain he should’ve felt was non existent. 

He sat up, taking in the curious room and it’s doors before he turned around, staring up at his half door sitting directly above a different door, still swung open. He could see the flooring of the laundry room. It seemed to sink into the top of the door below it, and perhaps it did, as it never opened when he tried. 

It was Sunday. The mysterious writer said they’d be here for Sunday, but never gave a time. He wasn’t in a rush. He just hoped he hadn’t missed them.

He looked at the doors, the details and differences in them were… astounding. It felt like an abstract painting. It was impossible that every door led somewhere- they were too close together. Still, he wanted to try every one, to see where they went,  _ if  _ there was anything beyond the doors. 

Grantaire stopped at a couple of the doors. One looked like a door to a greenhouse, however the windows were frosted and he could only make odd shapes out from behind it. Another looked so tiny, it could’ve come straight out of Alice in Wonderland. He was almost disappointed that there was cake that said  _ eat me. _

One door looked like a run down apartment door. The paint looked smoke stained, and the doorknob almost looked like it was about to fall off. 

The doorknob began to move and Grantaire pulled back, waiting like a deer caught in headlights. The person on the other side struggled for a moment, before there was a bang and they stopped. Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows before he stepped forward again and looked at the door. Was it locked? 

He waited, staring at the door. Minutes passed and the door never moved again. Grantaire sighed before he turned around, taking in the room again. He hummed softly and walked around, scuffing his feet against the floor. 

He sighed heavily as the time seemed to stretch on for eternity. He sat down in the middle of the room before he laid down on his back, gazing up into the endless sky. There had to be a ceiling somewhere, he thought. There had to be light coming from somewhere- there was no way that he was looking at the sky. It was morning when he managed to get the door open. 

This room shouldn’t exist within the basement of the apartment building. A part of him just knew that this wasn’t part of any building. Not his own, and not the one next to his. It felt beyond time, beyond possibility. 

Eventually, after Grantaire began to grow tired and his back stiff, he officially gave up. The writer wasn’t coming. The door hadn’t let them in and they’d given up. Or this was all just some dream he was living through. With a small huff, he got up and crossed the room to his door. He tried the one below his own again, but it still refused to open.

He reached up, managing to swing it open again with the corner and jumped to grab the edge of it. He began to hoist himself up. 

“It’s you,” a voice came from behind him. Grantaire had been so startled that his grip slipped suddenly, knocking his knee into the doorknob of the door below him. 

“Yeah. It’s me,” he replied from the floor, holding his eyes tight before he got up and turned around. 

Time seemed to freeze as he locked eyes with the person across the room, having just stepped through his own door. A different one from the apartment door. Both their mouths were agape. 

The man swallowed, giving Grantaire a once over. At first, Grantaire had thought that he was checking him out, but when he noticed how tightly the other’s eyebrows were knitted together, he realized that he was confused by his presence. Grantaire could easily say the same. 

He looked like he had just stepped out of period play- like he was playing some background extra in a local production of Dracula and got too attached to his costume. His appearance was unkempt, though his hair seemed to fall perfectly against his face. His eyes looked tired and distressed. 

“I checked all week for you,” the man said. “Did you not get my letter? I… I’ve been checking this room every day since Sunday.”

“It is Sunday,” Grantaire replied bluntly. “I’ve been waiting here for  _ you _ for hours.” 

The man shook his head. 

“No. No I checked this room  _ three times _ on Sunday, I even asked if you had been here. You never were.”

“You asked the room?” Grantaire asked with a small laugh. “What? It responds to you?” 

“You… you didn’t know?” 

Grantaire looked around before he shook his head. 

“Is that something I  _ should  _ know?” he pushed. The man almost said something before he went quiet. 

“You’ve truly been here since Sunday?” he asked. 

“Yes. Still  _ is,  _ far as I’m concerned,” Grantaire said. 

“You’re… dressed rather odd,” he said, which made Grantaire laugh out loud. 

“So are you, Renaissance Fair,” Grantaire replied. There was nothing wrong with how he was dressed, Grantaire thought. He was just in a t-shirt and jeans. His good ones too- ones that hadn’t yet been painted in. 

“Renaissance?” he questioned. Grantaire looked at him, bewildered that he didn’t seem to recognize the name. 

“I mean damn. What inspired you to wake up in the morning and get dressed like Shakespeare?” he laughed. 

“I’m sorry… this is coming from the man who thought wearing his night clothes was a good idea?” he questioned. 

“I don’t sleep in this,” Grantaire shot back. Then a beat and a thought dawned on him. Hesitantly, after he took in the other’s appearance one more, he stepped forward. 

“Where are you from?” he asked. “Where does your door lead? I’ve never seen you around.” Grantaire liked the idea of fairy tales. He wanted to think that there was something more here than just a room. 

“Paris, France,” he replied. “Just off of  _ rue de l’Eglise _ , but the door I came through is in the basement of the Musain.”

“Never heard of it,” Grantaire replied. “I live on that street too- there’s only one apartment building and I’ve never seen you there.” 

“Well I’m not lying,” he said. 

“I’m not either,” Grantaire said. “But I would’ve noticed you.” If not for the clothes, definitely just by his face alone. “So I think the real question is… when are you from?” 

Grantaire had been joking when he said it. He didn’t expect the other to take it seriously, but he crossed his arms and looked back to his door before he turned back to Grantaire. 

“Eighteen Thirty Two,” he replied. Grantaire laughed, brushing off the sarcastic reply. 

“Very funny,” Grantaire replied. 

“I wasn’t being funny,” he said. “It’s Eighteen Thirty Two.” 

“It’s Twenty Nineteen,” Grantaire said. 

The other opened his mouth before he shut it, repeating the motion like a skipping record before he walked closer to Grantaire, who was leaning against the door below his. 

“Is that possible?” he asked, staring directly at the wall. Grantaire raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he walked over to the other. 

“Not sure if you realize this, but I’m not a wall,” Grantaire said. The other brushed him off when a little shaft in the side of the wall appeared. When he opened it, there was a small tray with a small box on top of it. 

He picked it up and opened it before he rolled his eyes and put it back on the tray. Grantaire never got a chance to see what was in the box before it disappeared behind the trap door shut and the box disappeared. 

“Helpful,” he muttered. Grantaire just blinked. 

“Did you just talk to the room?” he asked. 

“Yes,” he responded hesitantly. “Did you… not know that the room listens to you?” 

“This is the first time I’ve been in here,” Grantaire said. “Uh, I slipped the yellow note through a weird, bottom half of a door in the laundry room of my apartment building. Until today, I couldn’t even get the door open.” 

“Oh,” he said. “I thought this was your room.” 

“No,” Grantaire said. “I’m Grantaire.” 

“Enjolras,” the stranger replied, holding out his hand. Grantaire hesitated before he took the hand and shook it, his rough knuckles brushing against his fingertips as he pulled away. 

The room fell silent then, Grantaire taking a liking to bringing his gaze back up to the ceiling once more. He wasn’t sure what either of them were doing in this room now. He expected it to be more exciting… like he was about to run into a grand adventure. Instead he was in a blank room with a man who should’ve been put in his grave nearly two hundred years ago. 

“May we get somewhere to sit?” Enjolras said, breaking the silence. Grantaire looked at him, curious about what that could’ve meant when two mahogany colored velvet armchairs rose from the ground, materializing in front of Grantaire’s eyes. 

He was dreaming, Grantaire decided then. He could’ve gotten behind the weird room filled with doors, he could’ve gotten behind the attractive historic figure coming through another door, but he was drawing the line at furniture just… appearing. 

“And the fireplace?” Enjolras asked, and the room listened, three doors making way for a fireplace to come out of the wall, a warm fire already lit in the hearth. 

Enjolras sat down in the first chair and after a moment, Grantaire followed. He wasn’t ready to wake up yet. He wanted to memorize the other’s features, his eye color and the way his hair fell against his face. He wanted to be able to draw him, to keep that memory in his mind. 

He remembered reading about how the brain couldn’t create new faces, which meant that he had seen Enjolras before. It was a surreal idea, and he knew he’d likely never find the real person, but he wanted to pretend he could. Just for now. 

He closed his eyes, before he brought his legs up underneath him in the chair. He hadn’t realized how cold the room felt until he was sitting in front of the fire, crackling softly. 

“You’re from the future,” Enjolras remarked. Grantaire gave a short nod, keeping his eyes closed. 

“And you’re from the past,” Grantaired echoed. 

“What was the yellow paper? The sticky one?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire laughed, looking over at the other. 

“A sticky note,” he responded. “You get them in a little deck and can peel them off and stick them to things- other paper and walls. Stuff like that.” 

“I like it,” Enjolras said. “I still have it.” Grantaire looked over at him curiously, giving a small smile. 

“It’s just a sticky note.” 

“Perhaps to you, but I’ve never seen one before,” Enjolras asked. “I doubt sticky notes even exist yet.”

“Paper and tape works just the same, just harder to get off,” Grantaire remarked. 

“Tape?”

“Fuck you don’t even have tape yet?” Grantaire laughed. “What  _ do  _ you have?” 

“You can’t expect me to make a list of everything I have,” Enjolras said flatly. Grantaire shrugged. 

“I have the time,” he said. 

“I don’t,” Enjolras responded. Grantaire looked over at him curiously, the sudden change of tone taking him off guard. He seemed so serious saying that. Grantaire didn’t think further into it though, he just turned back to the fireplace. 

“So you can ask the room for anything?” Grantaire asked. 

“I think so,” Enjolras said. “I didn’t experiment very much the first time I was here. It doesn’t answer questions, at least not directly, but if you request something it appears.” 

“So we’re never gonna know what this room even is,” Grantaire said absently. It wasn’t real though, he reminded himself. He was just dreaming. An incredibly real feeling dream. 

“Probably not,” Enjolras responded. 

“You’re  _ really  _ from Eighteen Thirty Two?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras nodded. “What’s it like?” 

“Depends on who you ask,” Enjolras said. “If you’re sitting pretty on a pile of gold you are all set. Most people are just struggling to keep alive.” 

“What end do you sit on?” Grantaire asked, leaning in curiously. It was hard to tell just by looking at him. 

“I’m not sitting pretty, but perhaps better than some,” he said after a moment. “I’m trying to make a change.” 

“Good luck,” Grantaire said with a small laugh. 

“Does it get better?” Enjolras asked, but before Grantaire could even open his mouth, Enjolras was speaking quickly again. “Nevermind, please don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Alright then,” Grantaire said. “My lips are sealed.” 

Enjolras, despite not wanting to know about the future, seemed to love to talk about the past. Grantaire couldn’t keep up with the names and the information. He caught snippets- his group was  _ Les Amis De L’ABC _ and it was part of The Society of Rights, there were a few names that came up a few times, though they left as fast as they came up. Some seemed vaguely familiar, particularly a  _ Marius _ , but he knew that more than one person could share a name. Grantaire just started to nod along at some point. 

“No offense, but I’m lost,” Grantaire interrupted with a laugh when the other paused to take a breath. He blinked back in surprise. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I got lost in your eyes back when you mentioned Musain,” he said with a soft smile, shifting closer in a more comfortable position. 

“Right,” he said after a beat, his ears gaining just a tint of red. Grantaire just let his smile grow. He could get used to looking at a face like that. 

“I should go,” Enjolras said after a moment. “I have a meeting right away.”

“Okay,” Grantaire replied, deflating just a bit. “When can I see you again?”

“Whenever we happen to be in the room together again, I suppose. There’s no way of telling each other when we’re here… we’ve learned that already.” Enjolras stood and began to cross the room. Grantaire remained in his seat, watching him move towards his own door, which Grantaire was admittedly envious of how beautiful it was. 

“Goodbye Grantaire,” Enjolras said from his door. Grantaire turned and gave a small wave. He waited for the other to leave through his door before Grantaire pinched himself. 

He didn’t wake up and a wave of relief washed over him. 

He was hoping this was reality. 

\---

The year was 1832. 

Enjolras wasn’t sure what to think about Grantaire. He was interesting, to say the least. He was a person of the future, afterall. It had taken everything in him not to ask what it was like, if everything that he was doing today would eventually pay off, even if it would take two hundred years for an impact to happen. He wanted to know if this fight was worth it, and suddenly he had a way to find out if it was, but he didn’t actually know if he wanted that. 

There was a lot to consider before he even thought to ask Grantaire about the future. Even just learning about tape and sticky notes and the word  _ Renaissance  _ (though he never got a definition) felt wrong. He wasn’t sure if it was going to be possible for him to ever ask anything. He wanted to know, but he didn’t _ want  _ to  _ know _ . 

He arrived early to the next Les Amis meeting the following night. He had no intention of going back through the door yet, but soon. Now that recent trip made him discover that he could come and go as he pleased without any time passing on his end, the room felt more comforting. He had someone in there now, possibly waiting for him at any given time, which was also comforting. At least he knew just one room led somewhere else, with real people. 

“Enjolras,” the bartender said, beckoning him over as he crossed the main floor of the Musain. Enjolras hesitated, making sure he meant him before he walked over and sat down on the stool. He didn’t recognize this man, he wasn’t the owner, Enjolras knew that for sure. Perhaps a new hire.

“I want to make sure you know what you’re doing,” he said vaguely. Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head lightly. 

“Of course I do, we’ve been meeting for-"

“Not about your group,” he interrupted. “I know you know about the door.”

“I…”

“That room is dangerous. It lives outside of time and reality. It’s not supposed to exist,” he explained, dropping his voice for just Enjolras to listen. “I thought I had managed to get it locked, but I know you’ve been inside.” 

“I don’t understand…” Enjolras trailed off hesitantly. “Why would you keep it out in the open like that then?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “The door showed itself to you.”

“The door-”

“You must be careful if you go in again. Finding out things about your future before you meant to is dangerous.” He had disregarded his comment entirely

“I’ll be careful,” Enjolras said with a small nod. “Promise.” 

The bartender gave a small nod. Enjolras hesitated before he slipped off the stool and began to get ready for the meeting before everyone else arrived that night, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

\--- 

The year was 2019. 

Grantaire sat on his couch in his living room, sketching what he could remember about Enjolras’s face. The sharp lines of his cheekbones and the soft wave to his hair. He had only left the room five hours ago, but everything was already fading from his memory. The entire experience felt like a dream and he was resisting the urge to go back down to the basement just to make sure that the room was real. 

He didn’t want it to be a dream. If it was a dream it meant that Enjolras wasn’t real. He wanted him to be real. He wanted the room that was out of a fairytale to be real. 

“What’s got you so giddy?” Eponine asked as she crossed from her bedroom to the kitchen. Grantaire just smiled and shrugged. He was too focused on trying to capture what he could before everything got all fuzzy. 

“If you’ve pulled another Marius-”

“Are you hopelessly in love with me?” Grantaire interrupted. Eponine cast him a short eye roll. 

“Haven’t been since Sophomore year,” she joked. 

“Then it’s impossible to be a Marius,” he said. Marius had been a kid they’d met in high school, Eponine had been his friend but Grantaire had only maybe had three conversations with him over the course of those four years. Neither of them still spoke to him, but Eponine would occasionally show him the new posts on his Instagram and rant about how she used to like him. If you asked Grantaire, she wasn’t entirely over him. 

“And I know his name,” Grantaire added quickly, looking down at the page as he played with the graphite. 

“Congrats,” she said sarcastically. 

Grantaire just smiled and shrugged and went back to his sketch. 

\---

The year did not exist. 

Grantaire learned quickly that he liked to paint in the room beyond time. At first, he didn’t think that he could actually bring the canvases out of the room. Nothing could come out unless it was brought in, but somehow the room could put it in his room for him if he asked. 

He hadn’t seen Enjolras in the room since the first time they’d met, despite him coming to the room a few times a week. It was nice- he could adapt the lighting however he wanted and it was easy to get references in front of him. Supplies weren't an issue and he had all the time in the world. It was any painter’s dream. 

He hummed to the quiet indie song that was playing from somewhere in the walls as he poured more oils onto his palette, mixing the colors to continue painting a run down shack, leaning heavily to one side in the middle of a daffodil spotted field. The sky was clear and the sun looked warm. 

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment, trying to picture the missing details. He wished he could go there. It felt real, somehow, though that could just be the room. He liked to blame a lot of things on the room when he was in it. 

“You’re a painter,” a voice suddenly came from behind him. Grantaire jumped, before he looked over at Enjolras standing by his own door. He offered the other a smile before he turned back to the canvas.

“I was beginning to think you’d caught the black plague,” he joked. Enjolras raised an eyebrow before he walked over, looking at the painting. 

“It’s only been a week,” he remarked. “Held off as long as I could before coming back.” 

Grantaire shook his head lightly. Time confused him. He understood that time didn’t move forward inside the room, but he thought time would continue to move linear outside of it.

“Three weeks,” Grantaire corrected. “I’ve been here at least ten times.” 

“ _ Ten _ ?” Enjolras asked. He paused before he furrowed his eyebrows. 

“Were you… waiting for me?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire shrugged before he focused back in on his canvas. He didn't want the paint to dry entirely before he caught a chance to work. 

“If it’ll make you feel better, sure,” Grantaire replied. 

“It doesn’t,” he replied. Grantaire zoned out for a moment then, just long enough for him to be able to spot more yellow flowers across the field and Enjolras to have the room form an armchair beside him. 

“Where is it?” Enjolras asked. 

“Where is what?” Grantaire asked. 

“The painting.”

Grantaire shrugged as he continued to adjust the colours, focusing in on the shack again. 

“Is it real?” Enjolras asked. 

“Maybe. I live in a big city, don’t see very many fields regularly,” he replied. “It’s for school. Landscaping project.” 

“It’s very nice,” he said. “Looks like somewhere you could go.” 

“Yeah probably,” Grantaire said. “I mean, there’s probably  _ some  _ place out there like this. Doubt anyone lives in the shack anymore though.” He let out a short laugh. 

The two fell silent then. Grantaire painted while Enjolras just sat and watched. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to be in here,” Enjolras admitted after a while. 

“Really?” Grantaire replied. Enjolras gave a slow nod. 

“I thought you would’ve… Put the room behind you or something,” Enjolras admitted. “It just really didn’t seem like your thing last time.”

“No,” Grantaire replied. “I love it actually. Makes me wonder if anyone else is going to come through the other doors.” 

“Right,” Enjolras said after a beat. “Well… I was expecting to be alone so that I could perhaps figure out what this room is.” 

Grantaire ignored the twinge of disappointment in his chest as those words escaped Enjolras’s mouth. He’d be lying if he said every time he had come into the room that he was hoping for Enjolras to show up at some point. He didn’t care what his own intentions were while going in, or what Enjolras might be doing once he appeared. It not being mutual sort of snapped him back to reality. Enjolras had just been curious about who had left him the sticky note. He wanted to know what the note was. That was all. 

“Don’t let me stop you,” he said coldly. “We can always ask for a wall.” 

“No that’s fine,” Enjolras dismissed, waving a hand off. “I can still work with you around.” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes at his canvas, reaching for his small table of paints. He grabbed a blue and put it on his palette before he continued painting. Enjolras must have taken the hint and got up, disappearing to the corner where the fireplace had remained static. Grantaire had never asked for it to be relit, but it seemed that the fire started whenever it wanted to without prompting. 

“Could I get a bookshelf, with books on the history of this room… or perhaps the doors?” Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire didn’t glance back at the familiar sound of the room rearranging itself at the request. The wonder of it had faded after the first few visits. He was still painfully curious where it all came from, but any questions for the room were always unanswered. He gave up and just accepted the room for what it was. 

Enjolras muttered to himself while he was reading, Grantaire noticed. He couldn’t see him, but he could hear him saying the title of every book on the shelf as he looked through them. He imagined that his hand was gliding over the tattered and old spines.

“Why is this room so stubborn?” Enjolras asked himself at one point. Grantaire opened his mouth to speak at first, then he waited a beat and changed the words as they came out of his mouth. 

“You’re a dumbass to try and get a straight answer out of it,” he said bluntly. “It doesn’t want you to know.” 

Enjolras made a small, frustrated noise that Grantaire ignored. He didn’t say anything else, but Grantaire just wanted to fill the silence with  _ something _ . 

“You don’t think I’ve  _ tried  _ asking where all this came from? How you and I are here literally two hundred years apart? It doesn’t tell you shit,” he egged him on, turning to face him. “There’s no point.” 

“There might be,” Enjolras said. “You just didn’t ask the right questions.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to speak before he just turned back to his canvas. 

“Can I get another pint?” Grantaire asked, smiling as his glass on the floor refilled itself silently. He picked it up and drank a mouthful before setting it down again. 

“You’re drinking?” Enjolras asked. 

“Yeah. I like doing it when I paint,” Grantaire said simply. He could feel the other’s gaze burning into the back of his head. 

“Is it any good?”

“It’s free. I ain’t complaining,” Grantaire replied. In reality, it was actually quite good. It tasted like a beer that was brewed in town that supplied several of the bars he liked to go to, but smoother. He had always favoured the apricot one, and the room seemed to know that without prompting. 

They went quiet again then. Grantaire had finished his painting to his liking a long time ago at this point, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. He’d leave if he really wanted to, but he was stubborn and if him being here made Enjolras just a little less content, he’d stay. 

Eventually he leaned the canvas down against his table of paints and finished the rest of his beer. He didn’t bother cleaning up, knowing that the room would do it on it’s own time. He requested the painting to go back to his room once it was dried and then left it. It wouldn’t return until no one else was in the room. 

He waited a moment, staring at his now empty easel before he turned to look at what Enjolras was doing. 

Enjolras looked so lost in the book in front of him, skimming the words. His mouth was following them, and maybe it was making the sounds too, but he couldn’t hear it. 

He hesitated, his gaze tracing Enjolras’s silhouette before he silently made his way to his own door. Enjolras said nothing as he opened it and crawled out of the room. 

Enjolras enjoyed the silence between the two of them when it didn’t feel tense, which admittedly, most of the afternoon had felt. Now though, it felt okay. After he had remarked about the drinking, the two fell into a comfortable silence. He continued to do work, trying to find out something, but nothing in any of the books made sense. 

“Do you study art in school?” he asked, not looking up from the book as he skimmed through the last few pages of his second book, just to make sure. After a moment, when there was no response, he looked up to see an empty room. Grantaire’s supplies were still set up in the center, but Grantaire was nowhere. 

He opened his mouth to speak again, before he stopped himself. He set the book down on the arm of his chair and stood up, walking over to the easel. He glanced around, before he picked up the painting he had been working on and set it back on the easel on display, right where it belonged. 

\---

The year was 1832. 

Enjolras was admittedly a bit hurt that Grantaire hadn’t said goodbye yesterday. He didn’t know why it was sticking with him. That was only the second time they’d met. They weren’t close. They’d never be close. Who knew how many more times they’d run into each other now. 

Still, he was thinking about him more than cared to admit.

He didn’t want to spend more time in the room than he needed to. He knew time didn’t move forward without him, but he had work to do and focus on. It was unfair to his friends. At the same time though, he felt drawn to it. Felt drawn to Grantaire, even though they had barely spoken to each other.

The room still unnerved him. The conversation with the bartender from last week always came back to mind. He hadn’t seen the man since- inside the room or out in the Musain. He wanted to ask more questions because the room certainly wasn’t giving him the answers he wanted. 

The room was dangerous, he knew that. He didn’t want to get distracted by it. It was easy to- with some many things just at his fingertips. He only wished he could go through the different doors.

He was fascinated by Grantaire, though. Why had he been the only other person who knew about the room? There were so many, and yet it was only ever the two of them in there. Was there a reason for that? Were they connected, somehow?

He was getting too used to Grantaire’s presence for his liking. It was getting to the point where he was expecting to see Grantaire in the room when he entered. Which was fine. It wasn’t his room alone, Grantaire was obviously welcomed there. 

It was all so dangerous. 

With Lemarque fading fast, it was only a matter of time before the revolution could truly begin. He was prepared to die, to lose it all. The room was becoming a safety blanket for him- a way to stall events he didn’t want to happen too soon. It wasn’t healthy, he knew that. 

Still, as he found himself heading towards the door for the fourth time this week, he couldn’t help but look forward to a few hours of not worrying. Time wouldn’t continue to move forward without him. He had all the time in the world to take in anything, debrief. Hopefully see Grantaire, if he was lucky enough. 

\--- 

The year did not exist. 

Enjolras took notice on how Grantaire seemed to use the room for painting more than anything else. He had found him in the room three times now, his easel and paints set up in the center. Even when it was just Enjolras in the room, they laid dormant there. Paintings were never left behind, but the paints always stayed. It was like the room was just always expecting him. 

On this particular evening, Grantaire was nearly done with his painting when Enjolras slipped in silently. The two would occasionally exchange short banter but full conversations rarely happened. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that they both used the room for their own purposes without annoying the other. 

Enjolras stood behind him for just a moment, taking in the painting. Grantaire only painted pure landscapes, it seemed, and Enjolras was always so curious about the locations. He didn’t know if they were real places or not, some of them were things he never even thought could exist.

Today he was painting a waterfall that flowed into a river disappearing off in the distance. There were trees and rocks lining the path with a small boat propped up against a patch of grass. The sun came through the leaves, casting glimmers on the surface. 

He admired it silently. Grantaire didn’t notice him, or if he did, he didn’t acknowledge his presence. 

Enjolras stepped back then, requesting his chair and bookshelf to return as usual. He sunk into his comfortable routine, still trying to figure out what this room was and how it could possibly exist. 

There was a long silence then, both of them working on their respective crafts. Enjolras cleared his throat once, then a few minutes later Grantaire uttered a string of curses under his breath as he knocked his paint and it’s water onto the floor. 

Enjolras got up quickly, walking over to help Grantaire. He offered a small smile as he bent down to help him. 

“How did that happen?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire glanced at him and shrugged, picking up the last of his brushes from the ground. He set them in a cup and stood. 

“Just knocked em I guess,” Grantaire replied. “I went to grab the paint and it all came down.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras remarked, nodding to the painting. Grantaire laughed lightly. The paints on the floor began to disappear into the flooring by itself. 

“I wouldn’t call it beautiful,” Grantaire dismissed. “The water doesn’t look right.” 

“Looks right to me… Makes me want to visit it,” Enjolras remarked. “I can almost picture myself sitting in that boat.”

“The boat’s half submerged in water,” Grantaire pointed out with a laugh. “I wouldn’t want to sit in that personally. Especially not with all your clothing.” 

Enjolras had always felt more overdressed compared to the other. It still baffled him that clothing in two hundred years time would simplify eventually to what Grantaire always wore. It looked like nightwear to him. Grantaire once commented that Enjolras looked like he was in a bad war reenactment. Why someone would want to  _ reenact  _ a war was beyond Enjolras. It was dreadful enough being in one the first time around. 

“Well I’d like to sit on the shore then,” Enjolras said instead. “Do you think the room would do it?”

“Do what?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras raised an eyebrow before he nodded to the painting. 

“Do you think the room would put us in the painting,” Enjolras explained. “If we asked it?”

Grantaire seemed to consider this for a moment before he turned back to the painting. He brushed his thumb against the dry corner before turning back to Enjolras. His eyes seemed to search his face. Enjolras had no clue what was going through his head. He never did really.

“Try it,” Grantaire said finally. “I mean- let’s try it, together.” His voice held that same flirtatious tone he had whenever the two didn’t seem to be bickering. Enjolras had to have been making a face though, because Grantaire just smirked and rolled his eyes. 

“What? Thought you’d go visit it alone?” he teased. Enjolras shook his head lightly before he turned to the painting. The longer the two stared at it, the more ridiculous this idea felt. 

“Are you going to do it or should I?” Grantaire broke the silence. Enjolras looked at him before he looked back to the painting. 

“Can you turn the room into this painting?” Enjolras asked. He wasn’t sure how to phrase it. It sounded right out loud, but as the two of them stood there, nothing happened. Grantaire looked at Enjolras. When Enjolras looked back, Grantaire looked away. 

“Put us into the painting, please” Grantaire tried. Enjolras opened his mouth to object- the phrasing sounded like it would be impossible to get out of it afterwards. Before he could say anything though, the room seemed to melt around them into the beautiful forest scene. 

It was quiet. The water flowed, but there was no wildlife. The boat, as Grantaire promised, was half sunk into the side of the lazy river. They stood just beside it in the grass. Everything was real, but everything was lacking specific details close up. There was no wind and the sun, though it came through the tops of the trees, didn’t bring any warmth. 

“So this is what it’s like,” Grantaire said absently, brushing his hand against one of the tree barks. Enjolras sat down on the grass, letting his legs hang over the small overhang. The bottom of his shoes barely brushed the water. 

“Have you ever been anywhere like this?” Enjolras asked. There was a pause. He could hear Grantaire walking across the grass. 

“When I was younger,” he replied. “Nothing exactly like this, but my aunt used to own a house in the country. There was a forest behind it and if you kept walking there was a waterfall that flowed into the river by her house. Last time I went I was probably… six? She died when I was young,” Grantaire continued. Enjolras kept watching the waterfall fall in odd, disjointed moments. 

Grantaire moved to sit down next to him, crossing his legs over each other instead of letting them hang like Enjolras’s. Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows lightly. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said. Grantaire dismissed it quickly. 

“It’s fine, I saw here a lot when I was younger- four times a year I’d say, but we grew apart before she died… she lived somewhere else. I want to say Ireland but I doubt it,” he explained. Enjolras let out a laugh of disbelief. 

“That’s not possible. You said you’re from France?” Enjolras asked. “That’s such a long travel.”

Grantaire laughed. “Traveling gets faster in the future,” he said simply. “It took us a day.” 

Enjolras shook his head lightly. 

“That’s absurd. It would take you a week at least,” Enjolras dismissed. 

“If I took a plane it would take me less than two hours,” Grantaire challenged. “In the future we can fly.”

“You’re lying,” Enjolras insisted.

“I swear on my grave,” Grantaire replied. 

Enjolras had no idea how to begin asking about how that worked, though he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know. He had his own future to think about, chances were he’d never get a chance to fly. He still thought that Grantaire was messing with him.

“I could tell you so much about the future and you wouldn’t believe me,” Grantaire challenged. “I mean, I ain’t gonna lie, I betcha you could tell me stuff about the past to baffle me. I did  _ not  _ pay attention in history class.”

“You learn about  _ my  _ time?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire laughed. 

“Course we did. I’m taking an art history class all about the renaissance and uh, middle ages right now,” he responded. 

Enjolras hesitated. 

“You’d need to be more specific there.”

“Fourteenth to seventeenth century,” he replied without missing a beat. “Little bit before you. You’d be surprised about how much art and poetry survived… Books,” Grantaire rambled offhandedly. “Shakespeare and Da Vinci, all those other dead fuckers.” 

“So eloquently put,” Enjolras replied. He watched as Grantaire got up and hummed, walking along the edge of the little cliff. Enjolras watched curiously. He knew Grantaire had been drinking a bit, so his unsteady feet were dancing dangerously to the edge. 

It didn’t take long for Grantaire to begin tilting towards the water. It was tempting, Enjolras couldn’t help but think. He gave a small half smile and without thinking much of it, kicked at his shin and Grantaire fell, splashing into the shallow water. 

Grantaire let out a slight cry as he resurfaced, wiping away at his face. 

“ _ Not  _ cool!” Grantaire exclaimed. Enjolras just shrugged. 

“It isn’t my fault,” Enjolras denied, leaning back against the grass. It was a rare moment like this that he got to just fully relax. No thoughts of his home or future or plans on the revolution. His mind was always swimming, this was one exception. 

Grantaire grabbed onto his leg in an attempt to tug him into the water, but Enjolras barely moved. He just watched Grantaire with slight amusement, letting him tug until his shoe fell off. Grantaire fell back into the water with another splash, the shoe drifting away in the slow current. 

“Oh come on,” Grantaire moaned. “Just jump in.” 

“No thank you,” Enjolras replied. 

Grantaire watched for a moment before he splashed him with water. Enjolras recoiled with a small scowl. Grantaire just grinned and splashed him a second time. 

“You, my friend, are skating on thin ice,” Enjolras warned. 

“Come on! Live a little. I’m already in here,” he said, swimming towards the center of the water. Enjolras was hesitant, sitting up as he watched Grantaire glide so effortlessly through the cool blue water. 

“I can’t swim,” Enjolras said. Grantaire looked at him from the water, already halfway across the river. 

“The water’s shallow enough.” Grantaire stood then. The water came halfway up his chest. If it wasn’t an issue for him, it surely wouldn’t have been an issue for Enjolras. Still, he was hesitant. 

“Come on,” Grantaire said, coming back to the edge of the water. 

Enjolras huffed before he shed his jacket, leaving it neatly folded in the grass. He did the same with his other shoe, though Grantaire didn’t really see the point of that. Any small details in his outfit, all piled neatly in the corner. Grantaire just watched as he prepared before he hesitantly lowered himself into the water. 

He looked nervous, but Grantaire quickly swam up to his side. 

“I won’t let you drown,” he said playfully. “I doubt we can even die in this room.” 

“Are we still technically in the room though?” Enjolras asked. “I mean…. We are  _ in  _ the painting… not in the room.”

“The painting in the room. I’m sure it’s the same,” Grantaire replied. “Like I said, it isn’t deep. Even if it is, I was a lifeguard for three weeks. Could save you easily.” 

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. So many little things that came out of Grantaire’s mouth didn’t make sense to him. Sometimes he was curious enough to ask him what he meant, but other times he just dismissed it. Most of the time it was simple, quite boring explanations. A simple invention that had come about at some point, or a new word or phrase that meant something entirely different from what it sounded like. 

The water swirled around their skin when Grantaire brought Enjolras out towards the center of the river, but nothing else moved. The water wasn’t cold, much to Grantaire’s disappointment. 

“See? This isn’t bad at all,” Grantaire said with a small laugh. Enjolras looked down at the bottom of the river, though the water was too murky for him to see anything. The ground felt soft though.

The water only came up to their shoulders at its deepest. Grantaire decided that, despite wanting to drag Enjolras there, if the man seemed so afraid of the water already that was probably a bad idea. So they waded in water about waist height. 

Enjolras gazed around and Grantaire took that moment of distraction as an opportunity to splash the other. He blinked back in surprise before he looked back to Grantaire, who splashed him a second time. Enjolras gasped before he splashed back, which made Grantaire laugh. 

The splashing continued, at first with turns before it was just hands flailing across the surface. Enjolras had stepped to the side, and suddenly slipped, falling back under the water. 

Grantaire was quick to help him resurface despite the lack of depth, holding him by his chest and waist. Despite the lack of temperature, Enjolras’s lips were quivering as water dripped down his face. Grantaire glanced down at his lips, which were subtly parted. He felt himself move forward just a bit, head tilting to the side before Enjolras had steadied himself and took a step back. Grantaire snapped out of his trance and stepped back.

Neither of them said anything as Enjolras walked to the edge and got out of the water, piling his clothes in his arms. Grantaire followed, but he knew that this was the end of whatever moment they had just had. 

“As nice as this is, I’d love to get out and finish this painting now,” Grantaire said, tucking his hands in his soaked pockets. Enjolras glanced at him before he nodded. 

“Need to dry off too,” he added. Grantaire glanced at the clothing in the other’s hand, before looking down at his clothes drenched. He laughed softly and nodded back. 

“We’d like to leave now,” Grantaire said, looking up to the sky as if that was where the room was. Whatever power that let them experience the world outside of time, looking down on the two of them. 

The painting began to melt around them, until the two of them were standing in front of the canvas once again in the quaint room. Grantaire glanced back at Enjolras, before he did a double take. Then, he burst out laughing. He was covered in splotches of light blue and white paint, some of it rolling down like rain drops on his arms and face. 

Glancing down, Grantaire realized that he was too. 

He looked at the painting. On the shore, there was one loan shoe. In the water, drifting down the river, was the other one. 

When Grantaire glanced back at Enjolras, he was smiling softly, watching Grantaire with warm eyes. 

\---

The year was 2019. 

The paint had left as he crawled through his door, leaving him the exact same as he came in. He glanced back before he shut the door and slid the drier back into place. He didn’t want anyone to find that door, as selfish as it was. The room was his and Enjolras’s, and he hated to admit it, but he wanted it to stay that way. 

A relationship was impossible. They could only meet in one room and time didn’t move the same way for the both of them. One day for him could be months for Enjolras. Not to mention the way he had so quickly recoiled when Grantaire had just begun to lean in to kiss him. He felt horrible for that. He had no idea what he was thinking. 

It was just the way the water seemed to glisten off him, he supposed. He looked cold and lost. All the nerves were in Enjolras, so he had been filled with confidence… And a few more drinks than he normally had while painting. 

Still, he knew feelings were forming. Enjolras was so unlike anyone Grantaire had met before, genuinely curious about so much. It probably helped that they were from two completely different centuries. 

He smiled as he grabbed the laundry basket from the floor, filled with his darks though he knew Eponine had snuck a few pieces of her clothes in there when he had brought it down. Silently, he made his way upstairs and then back into his apartment. 

Eponine was sitting at the living room table, cross legged on the floor as she wrote in an old notebook. Notes for school, Grantaire supposed. 

Wordlessly, he sat down at the couch and began folding the fresh laundry. 

“What’s got you all smiley?” Eponine asked as she glanced up at him. “Jesus and you’re already folding the laundry.”

Grantaire just shrugged. He genuinely didn’t know why he was so smiley. It could’ve been his sudden realization, but he doubted that. Nothing had happened. He had been  _ rejected.  _

“Hopeful, I guess,” he said. Then a beat. “I met someone, a while ago. I doubt anything will happen, but i just love talking to him.”

Eponine raised an eyebrow and Grantaire gave her a look that told her not to push. He wasn’t going to give her anything more than that. He needed to see what was going to happen in the room before he said anything more to her. The last thing he wanted was to gush about another hopeless romance. 

\---

The year did not exist.

Grantaire was in a slump. He was beginning to get sick of painting. This happened from time to time. Burnout, he supposed. His grades had just come back for the semester and now he had a break. Free from any assigned work that he might have to do. 

So instead, he was sprawled across the comfortable couch in the room, eyes closed as he listened to the crackling of the fire. Eponine was trying to drag him out to some sort of bar and as selfish as it was, he was trying to prolong the experience. Eponine wouldn’t notice Grantaire gone for hours at a time, and he’d still get to go… once he was physically ready for it. She had mentioned something about a local band playing with some people they knew from high school. The way she said it made it sound like it was Marius. 

A door opened and shut. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know who it was. At first, he was going to pretend to be asleep, but he couldn’t help but sit up so he could catch the other’s gaze. A small smile crept up the sides of his mouth. Enjolras returned it, before he moved to sit in the already forming arm chair across from him. 

Neither of them spoke right away. Grantaire just watched him, watched the flames from the fireplace illuminate his gentle, slightly messy blond curls. Enjolras seemed to be searching for something on Grantaire’s face, which only made him smile more as he set his head back on the small pillow, tucking his arm under his head. 

“Are you drunk?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire laughed softly. 

“Just a little,” he mused lightly, letting his eyes fall shut again. The room liked to hide the empty glasses once they were replaced with a new one, filled with whatever beer or ale he requested. Right now though, there was just an almost full glass of water on the floor, right where his hand would land if he were to toss it over the side of the couch. 

“You look tired,” Enjolras mused softly. Grantaire hummed in response, moving to lay back on his back again. 

“Very,” he replied. “I’d love a big bed right now with like.. A bunch of blankets and pillows and shit,” he muttered absently. “But I can sleep at home. I promise… two minutes and I’ll spend some time with you.”

In the opposite corner of the room, the bed he had requested began to form. Grantaire barely acknowledged it, but he was very much aware of its presence. Enjolras was too. 

“Who said I wanted to spend time with  _ you _ ,” Enjolras replied, which made Grantaire’s eyes open again to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Why else would you be here?” Grantaire used the room for so many things, but Enjolras had almost never been in the room first. For some reason, at some point, he had convinced himself that Enjolras only checked the room for him, and if he wasn’t there he just wouldn’t go in. 

Enjolras laughed. “I can do all the research I want on this place, and anything else. I can eat like a king or wish to see any painting or relax, for once in my life. This room has become a second home to me. You just don’t see me when I’m not watching you.”

“Watching me?”

“You can be… entertaining, I suppose. Annoying when I don’t want you here, but usually a pleasure,” Enjolras said with a small laugh. Grantaire just scoffed and rolled his eyes, pushing himself up to sit up and look at the other. 

“I am  _ always  _ a delight,” he countered. Enjolras raised an eyebrow and Grantaire nodded. “I am!” 

Grantaire yawned then, as much as he didn’t want to. He supposed, however, a proper nap would probably be best as he didn’t want to fall asleep when Marius began his long poem about a girl he once knew, or whoever his newest fling might have been. 

“Sleep,” Enjolras said, nodding towards the bed. “I came to see if I could find anything out about this room. I don’t need your distractions.” His tone was light and playful. Grantaire hummed as he stood. 

“I hope you join me at a decent hour, love,” he joked. Enjolras made no comment, though he did look down at his hands. Grantaire winked at him, which went unnoticed before he crawled under the covers of the lavish, king sized bed. 

He hadn’t actually expected to fall asleep, but the moment his head was against the pillow and the blanket was curled up around him, Grantaire was out of it. 

Grantaire woke up at some point. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, because Enjolras was still sitting by the fireplace, but two books had been discarded on the floor and he had a third one in his lap. It was open to the middle. 

“Still studying?” Grantaire asked groggily, pulling the blanket up closer around him. Enjolras glanced up at him before he gave a small nod. 

“I’ve found nothing. I keep searching and none of these books make any sense. The words don’t string together properly. They read like a drunk man wrote them- some of them like shitty poetry. Not to mention so many of the pages are missing,” Enjolras said. Grantaire hummed softly, rolling up on his back to stare at the endless ceiling, smiling at the soft familiarity of it. 

“Give me an example. Maybe I can help,” Grantaire suggested. Dissecting literature was not his strong suit. He nearly failed at English class so many times because of that. If he could be any help though, he’d be willing to try. 

Enjolras cleared his throat before he grabbed the book on the bottom of the small pile and flipped through until he landed on the page he had in mind, which was only three pages in. Grantaire sat up, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He smiled as Enjolras cleared his throat. 

“ _ In a world full of limited minutes, emerges a world without hours, through a door where only ghosts may enter. It feels like a beginning, until it becomes the end. The origins are not known. The creator lay lost, helpless. His moments grew to a halt, to take thy era from his heart. _ ,” Enjolras spoke, the words flowing effortly off his tongue. It didn’t sound like poetry, though Enjolras treated it as such, breaking it up into lines, finding a simple rhythm. 

Grantaire forgot that he was supposed to listen to the words, instead he was so focused on the  _ sound  _ coming from his mouth. So soft and smooth. 

“Can I see it?” he asked, pretending to have actually taken it in. Enjolras hesitated before he nodded and gathered up the books, before he moved to sit next to Grantaire on the bed. 

He placed the book in his lap and pointed to the paragraph, dead center of the page. It was all handwritten, the font so familiar yet he couldn’t quite put his hand on it. 

Grantaire repeated the paragraph out loud before he looked to Enjolras, who was leaning over, just hovering over his shoulder. They were very close. They hadn’t been this close since they were in the painting. Grantaire glanced down at his lips again before he swallowed. Before he could even try anything though, he pulled himself away and looked down at the pages again. 

“I have no clue,” he admitted. 

“You’d think it was a story, wouldn’t you? But it has no plot. There’s nothing of value, every page makes no sense.” 

“Show me another one,” Grantiare said. “Read it to me, please.”

Enjolras looked uncertain before he flipped to a different page. This one, more towards the end. Again, Enjolras cleared his throat and Grantaire only watched his lips. 

_ “ _ “ _ It’s been minutes, maybe years. I hate this room for its life, for what it gave me and took away. I keep waiting and waiting and asking but have gotten nothing. Fuck it all, it’s painful. Nothing works. I just want everything back. I want it back and i can't even tell if it’s gone forever. Tomorrow I’ll ask. Or I’ll leave. I know I’ll ask. I can’t bear to leave. I can’t bear to not _ \- the next few sentences are so smudged and scribbled out, it doesn’t look like words-  _ The kisses were too short. The embraces not long enough. I want a secret to tell, but I have no one to say. This room… not it. I can’t just. There's too much I don’t know and-  _ then the next pages are ripped out. _ ” _

Grantaire leaned in again, this time swallowing before he laid down in the bed again, burying his head in the pillow. Enjolras just huffed and shut the book before he tossed it to the side. 

“You ask for information about the room, and it just gives you nonsense,” Enjolras said, obviously growing frustrated. “I don’t have any more time! I don’t want to die with these mysteries aching in the back of my mind.” 

Grantaire hesitated before he sat up and looked at him, startled. 

“You don’t… have  _ time? _ ” he asked. “Enjolras, we have all the time in the world if we just stay here. I know that you have to deal with plague and malnourishment and-”

“No. No, Grantaire... I told you about what I’ve been doing. I’ve been working, planning with a group of people for months. The time’s come, I have a revolution to fight and I can’t just stay here. I can’t make my companions wait, it would be unfair,” Enjolras explained. Grantaire looked at him, confused, trying to comprehend what he was saying. 

“What?” Grantaire gasped lightly. 

“That’s why I came. In two days’ time it begins, and I may not come out with my life,” he said. Grantaire swallowed, eyes wide. 

“You can’t leave me,” Grantaire said selfishly. “I…” 

“We both knew this was coming,” Enjolras said. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to see, just  _ see  _ if I could find out anything about this room. It’s been the biggest thing on my mind for  _ months  _ now. I can’t die not knowing  _ what  _ this is.”

“So that’s the only reason why you came? The room? Were you even going to bring this up to me?” Grantaire asked, shifting so he could look directly at him. 

“Honestly… No,” Enjolras trailed off hesitantly. “I was going to leave a note-”

“A note?!” Grantaire exclaimed. “I’m only worth a note to you?”

“No Grantaire-”

“No. No that’s what you’re saying,” Grantaire said, shaking his head. He got off the bed, practically shaking. “I spend months coming here, hoping that you’ll be here. Hoping we could spend time together or- or,” he rambled, before he shook his head. 

“Grantaire…”

“I thought… I was almost sure I could love you,” Grantaire said. It took them both back by surprise, Enjolras definitely taking this news in a lot more than Grantaire. He had vocalized it several times to Eponine, but never to Enjolras himself. It didn’t matter now, he supposed. It was stupid and  _ useless. _

“I’m sorry Grantaire,” Enjolras said. “But I don’t… I  _ can’t _ .” 

“It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you don’t want to,” Grantaire said. “I get it, okay? I do. We both have lives outside of here. It’s so much more complicated than just staying here with me forever. I never wanted that, I was never going to ask you that… but...” Grantaire trailed off. 

Slowly, Enjolras got off the bed. He looked at Grantaire with a sorrowed look.  _ Pity.  _ He didn’t want pity. 

“Grantaire, please. I never meant to get this close to you, I knew going into this that nothing could come of it. We’re  _ centuries _ apart. We live in such different times, I can’t even go through a door without being burnt or frozen. There was no way  _ we  _ could work,” Enjolras said. He was too calm. “It’s not even allowed for me. It’s jail or death.” 

“It’s not jail or death here,” Grantaire said. “But it doesn’t matter. You weren’t even going to tell me that you might never be coming back.” 

“It was just easier. I never meant-”

“And here I was wanting to  _ kiss  _ you,” Grantaire said with a small shake of his head. “For so long now. I was going to, and I knew I would’ve gotten rejected but it would never have hurt as bad as this is.” 

Enjolras hesitated, mouth agape. Before he could even say anything though, Grantaire was making his way to his door. He leaned down and opened it, before making the pathetic and embarrassing crawl through the door. He just fell on the floor, shutting the door behind him with his foot. Enjolras had been saying something, but Grantaire hadn’t caught a word of it. 

\---

The year was 2019. 

Grantaire was not in the mood for a concert. 

It took him longer than he cared to admit it to get up off the laundry room floor. He pushed the drier back into place without giving the room a second glance. 

By time he had gotten up to the apartment, his eyes were tearing up. It only took a few more seconds before he was silently crying. 

He opened the apartment door and slipped in. Eponine was putting in earrings as she came out of the hallway. 

“There you are. I was beginning to think…” she trailed off as she noticed the look on his face. “Something was wrong.”

“You go on without me,” Grantaire said, wiping at his eyes quickly. Eponine had been so excited to go earlier, he wasn’t about to take that away from her. 

“No. No, R, tell me what happened,” Eponine said, taking his hand before she sat him down on the couch. She sat beside him, keeping his hand in her own. 

“I just… The boy… It isn’t gonna work out. It… it was a longshot, but,” he rambled. He swallowed before he wiped at his eyes again. “I’ll be fine in a minute. I just need to process some things…” 

“I can stay,” Eponine said with a small nod. Grantaire just shook his head. 

“ _ Go, _ ” he insisted. “Go… get drunk… enjoy the concert. Bring me back a CD,” he said, forcing a small laugh. “I promise, I’ll be okay.” 

“Are you absolutely sure?” She insisted. Grantaire offered a small smile. 

“See? I’ve stopped crying already,” Grantaire pointed out, his eyes still tearing up but nothing was falling down his face yet. 

Eponine looked hesitant, but after a moment she stood and sighed softly. 

“I’ll bring you a CD,” she promised. “Please… try to stay away from the alcohol. Please.”

“I’ll try,” Grantaire said half heartedly. 

\--- 

The year did not exist. 

But a small note did. 

Written on the same stationary that always appeared in the room. 

Three simple words, and Enjolras watched as they faded out of the room, hopefully to be found somewhere soon by Grantaire. 

_ Please come back.  _

\---

The year was 2019.

It had been the same night when the note appeared on his bedside table. Grantaire hadn’t kept his promise, having lasted just an hour before he found himself mixing an all too strong drink of cheap rum and coke. There was nothing when he left, but when he returned to his bed with his second drink and his phone in hand, he couldn’t help but notice it. 

He read it once, then twice, then he crumpled it up and tore it to shreds, leaving it on the floor. 

He downed his drink then. He was going to savour it, to drink it slowly, but now he didn’t care. He just wanted sleep. He’d be fine in a couple days time, he hoped. He’d have to get going to the room out of his habits. There wouldn’t be anyone there waiting for him now. 

Even if Enjolras waited for him to come back, what would come of it? He didn’t want more explanation. He didn’t want to stop Enjolras. This was a wake up call. The room was bad, it was something he should stay away from. 

By midnight, he was making his way to the basement again despite his own wishes. His mind was still fuzzy, so perhaps it was all just a mistake. He wanted to know what he was going to say. He was hoping for an apology. He’d be okay with just a proper goodbye. 

\---

The year did not exist. 

Enjolras sat at the fire, curled up in the corner of a soft couch with a blanket. He stared blankly at the fire, watching as the blue flame flickered. He had gotten too warm long ago and asked the fire to cool him down. Now though, he was too cold but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He just wrapped the blanket tighter around him. 

He had sent the note hours ago. It felt like it could’ve been days, but there was no Grantaire. 

He reluctantly left after Grantaire had two nights ago. All he could think about was what he said, how clueless Enjolras had been. He wasn’t going to come back. He had shoved boxes in front of the door to keep it out of mind. But here he was, the night before Lamarque's funeral, waiting. 

It was unfair to wait this long. He had people counting on him, presumably frozen in time. He couldn’t wait forever, but he needed to see him. He needed to set things right.

There was a small noise, but it wasn’t until he was sure that it had been a door shutting that he looked up. 

Standing across the room, was Grantaire. He was wearing the same outfit that he had left in- a pair of grey sweatpants, a shirt and a soft blue cardigan. He looked like it had only been hours. Enjolras had been waiting days. 

“Why?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras got up, tossing the blanket to the side before he crossed the room. He stopped himself just in front of Grantaire. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

Grantaire, usually so full of words to say, said nothing. Enjolras glanced nervously around his face, trying to read him. He was drunk, he could tell. Or at least sobering up from a night of drinking. 

Without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s waist and tugged him close, leaning in to kiss him softly. Grantaire didn’t respond at first, but slowly, he reached up to cup the other’s face in his hands and he kissed back, desperately. 

When Enjolras pulled away, he was the first to speak. 

“I wanted to kiss you too,” he replied quietly. 

Grantaire was still trying to process what had just happened. Enjolras just offered a small smile, before he took his hand and led him back towards the couch. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said finally. “I guess I should have mentioned it to you. I just… I didn’t want to get too attached to you.” 

Grantaire shook his head lightly. “But  _ I  _ got attached to  _ you _ .” 

“I know,” Enjolras said shortly. “And I’m sorry, because I did too. I just didn’t want to admit it.” 

Grantaire hesitated before he smiled softly. There was a moment when nothing happened, but then Grantaire leaned in and connected their lips once again. Enjolras responded, moving closer to him. Grantaire crawled onto his lap and wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s neck. He pulled away, only to rest his forehead against the other’s. 

“Please just stay with me,” Grantaire said softly. “Maybe we can figure something out. Maybe we can-”

“Grantaire, I have to go,” Enjolras said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” Grantaire asked. “Enjolras… I want to be with you… outside of this room. So badly.” 

“I do too,” Enjolras responded, shutting his eyes. Grantaire pulled away to look at Enjolras properly. 

“But it’s not possible,” Grantaire finished hesitantly. “I could… paint us places to go. I could paint us our own house, with a beautiful lakeside view and I could teach you how to swim,” he said. “I could take you to see any wonder of the world you wanted. I could! We wouldn’t be confined to this room.”

“I have to go,” Enjolras insisted. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“What about me?” Grantaire asked.

“I’ll do everything in my power to come back for you,” Enjolras promised. 

“That’s not a guarantee though,” Grantaire said softly. 

“It is. I will. I’ll find a way,” he insisted. “Just wait for me, please?”

Grantaire hesitated before he nodded. A small “okay” escaped his lips before Enjolras leaned in and kissed him again. 

“Do you have to leave now?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras swallowed. 

“Soon.” 

“I love you, you know,” Grantaire said. Enjolras smiled and nodded. He couldn’t say it back, the words got caught in his throat. It wasn’t something he had thought he’d ever say. Instead, he just kissed him again. This time deeper than the last, and he held Grantaire in a way that made it clear that he wasn’t letting him just pull away this time. 

He prolonged leaving as long as he could, but the guilt was creeping up his back with every passing minute.    
  


As the two of them laid in the same soft bed as before, wrapped in each other’s arms, he knew it was time. Silently, without saying a word to Grantaire, he pulled himself away and began to dress himself. Grantaire just watched from his place before he slowly sat up.

It took him less time to pull on his shirt and sweats, so he waited until Enjolras was crossing to his door to get up. 

“I’ll be back for you,” Enjolras reassured. “Somehow. Even if I die…” 

“You won’t,” Grantaire replied, though he wasn’t sure of it. He didn’t know what Enjolras was walking into and Enjolras refused to give any details. 

One last time, Grantaire pulled him in and kissed him. He smiled softly as he tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. 

“Goodbye, love,” Grantaire said. 

“Goodbye,” he replied softly. Enjolras took a deep breath before he put his hand on the door and turned the knob. He gave Grantaire one last glance before he disappeared through the door and shut it softly. 

\---

The year does not exist. 

Or maybe it did. 

Time felt like it was moving. 

But it didn’t. 

Grantaire had been waiting in the room for who knows how long. He sat on the couch, gazing at the fire, making it change warmth and colour before he grew bored of it. 

He paced, trying to keep his mind clear of any worries. Enjolras would come back. He’d come through that door any minute. 

Grantaire summoned paints and canvases and brushes and painted, once scenery after another. A warm beach, a cozy cabin, the Temple of Artemis. He painted a field, covered in fresh winter snow. He tried to stick with landscapes- places he’d love to visit with Enjolras, but at one point they slowly began to morph.

He painted a portrait of Enjolras, before he painted a second and a third, all different. He wished he could have captured some of the moments. Him laughing, him concentrated on a book with his eyebrows knitted together tightly. He wasn’t sure how long he had been waiting, but he felt like Enjolras was beginning to fade from his memory. 

It felt like just hours ago that Enjolras had left, but he knew it must have been more like days. Time wasn’t trackable, but he could feel it. 

Grantaire barely ate or slept. It wasn’t like he grew hungry or tired, though at one point he did notice that he was beginning to thin out. 

As time went on, Grantaire grew less motivated. He watched Enjolras’s door from his spot on an armchair. Occasionally he’d ask the room to change it out for a new one, just to have a bit of change of scenery. The chairs would get worn out and uncomfortable. 

He asked the room to take away the painting supplies, only to leave the canvases covered in paint. He asked the room to take away the few books that had been scattered about at some point after.

Slowly, the room took away everything until it was just Grantaire and his chair, the fireplace sitting right behind him. 

He didn’t break hope. Enjolras would come back. He’d come away, successful. He’d win his war, unscarred, and he’d come back. They’d figure out how to leave together. 

“Is Enjolras ever going to come?” he asked the room. Of course, there was no answer. The room didn’t answer questions. Enjolras had figured that out the first time they met. Enjolras had figured out so much about the room, yet they still didn’t know anything. 

“Show me what Enjolras is doing right now,” he asked. In the fire, an image flickered through the flame. He couldn’t quite make it out, but he was alive. He stood, in some sort of room, speaking proudly with his arms outstretched. Grantaire gave a soft smile. 

The flame flickered out then, and it gave him just enough hope. 

He remembered the books with endless nonsense. The odd almost poem. Grantaire wasn’t sure what to ask for the books, however. He cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he last spoke. It felt like only seconds ago that he saw Enjolras in the flame, but his throat felt dry and rough. 

“A notebook, please, and… and a pen,” he asked. “And somewhere to write.”

Across the room, a desk appeared with a leather bound book and a fountain pen. Grantaire crossed the room and sat down, before he opened the new notebook. He thought for a moment, trying to recall the poem Enjorlas once recounted for him. 

_ In a world full of countless minutes.  _

No. That didn’t sound good.

Grantaire tore out the page. 

_ In a world full of limited minutes,  _

_ emerges a world without hours.  _

Something something… There was something about ghosts. 

_ Through ghost’s memories.  _

No. That was the different one. The one that was a poem. 

He tore the page out again. 

It took so many tries, he was beginning to grow tired of trying to format the poem in the traditional stanza format. He began writing it out just as he remembered, in prose. It wasn’t time to reimagine it. He just wanted to  _ remember _ it. 

_ In a world full of limited minutes, emerges a world without hours, through a door where only ghosts may enter. It feels like a beginning, until it becomes the end. The origins are not known. The creator lay lost, helpless. His moments grew to a halt, to take thy era from his heart. _

He had gotten it right at last. Grantaire let out a happy cry, rereading it. He could almost hear how Enjolras had read it to him as he read through it again. 

The poet wasn’t good. Whoever this stranger might have been, but Grantaire was curious about them. Absently, over time, he decided to fill the book with his own writings. He never tried the poetry, but getting his thoughts out was nicer than saying them out loud to no one. He’d rip pages out when they didn’t feel right, or he’d smudge and scribble out sentences. 

He had almost finished the first book. On the last page, his hand was so sore that half the writing wasn’t readable. He tried where he could, but he had run out of things to say. He had no creative way to say any of it either. He was so sick of painting though, this was heavenly compared to it. 

Over time, more books were filled. He thought of Enjolras, what he might say about them. He’d laugh, possibly. Or smile. He couldn’t remember if Enjolras had been much of a writer himself, or maybe he just liked reading. Why had he been reading all those books in the first place?

His hand began growing stiff, his writing becoming more slanted and illegible as time went on. 

At one point, he just had to stop. 

He stopped writing. He stopped painting. He just sat in his chair and waited. 

He was waiting for a man who would never return. 

Grantaire couldn’t remember when he had made that conclusion. The chair was either a seafoam blue, 1950s looking diner chair, or it was a faded pink victorian era armchair. Him changing his chair was his only way to remind himself of the passing of time. 

The thought of Enjolras being gone hurt him. His heart could barely take it. 

He was tired of waiting. He needed Enjolras back. He didn’t want to go back home to wait. What if he missed him?

“I would like a calendar, dated in Eighteen Thirty Two with every major event for Enjolras’s life written on it.”

He wasn’t sure it was going to work, but sure enough, the calendar appeared out of the wall. 

Grantaire got up and began to flip through it. January, February, March. April. May- and then June. 

His heart stopped. There were little x’s on all the numbers, signifying the passing of that day. On June sixth, it was marked simply  _ shot by eight bullets. _ There were no other events listed. 

Tears welled in his eyes as Grantaire flipped through the rest of the year, every number crossed out up until the new year. He took a shaky break, before he dropped the calendar. 

He wasn’t coming. 

Enjolras wouldn’t be coming. 

Grantaire shook his head, wiping away at the silent tears coming down his cheeks. 

“D… destroy my door,” he told the room in an impulsive decision. “Get rid of it! Destroy Enjolras’s door too! I don’t need it anymore so just- get rid of it!” He yelled through sobs, which were beginning to grow harsher and harsher as he processed what he was doing. “Just… destroy all the doors!”

Slowly, one by one, the doors began to disappear from the walls. Some would fade in transparency. Some shrunk down until they were too small to see. 

And suddenly, Grantaire was left alone in a doorless room with no escape. There was no one coming, and he wouldn’t leave. 

Enjolras promised! He  _ promised  _ he would come back to him. He promised he’d find his way back.

But he wasn’t coming. 

Grantaire would never see him again.

And he didn’t want to exist without him. 

\---

The year was 2019. 

At midnight on June fifth, a fire sparked in the basement of an apartment building.

Within an hour, the entire building had been engulfed in flames. Firefighters tried to get it under control, but the entire building had been a total loss. Thankfully, the fire hadn’t spread down the street. 

The cause of the fire was a mystery, though the most logical conclusion had been that one of the old driers simply overheated and started the flame. 

There were no injuries, but one person hadn’t made it out alive. 

A man, later identified by his roommate as Grantaire. 

In a small cafe, a blond law student felt tears forming in his eyes as he read through the article on his laptop. He felt a pang in his chest grow as he continued to read the article until he landed on the photo of the dead man. 

He was so familiar, but he had never seen him in his life. 

And now he never would. 

**Author's Note:**

> Cool! Cool. So that's that. Kudos, comments and all that fun stuff. Also, feel free to follow me on tumblr @bittersweet_skylines my blog is a mess but I post updates for fics and all that fun stuff!


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